


Mirjahaal

by Triscribe



Series: Vod'e An [3]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt, Grief/Mourning, Mando'a Language (Star Wars), Mentioned Pong Krell, Recovery, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:15:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29360121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Triscribe/pseuds/Triscribe
Summary: Two things became very clear, in the aftermath of breaking up the courtyard battle. First and foremost, the Jedi they’d assisted were nothing like Krell, because the older one - male, human, Coruscanti accent - smiled at them with sheer relief in his eyes, and thanked each of the troopers personally, asking for their names one by one.The second thing they learned came from the smaller Jedi - female, near-human species, inflections in her voice that matched the locals - when 4418 asked for an update on the status of the war, to which she asked, “What war?”
Relationships: Ky Narec & Asajj Ventress
Series: Vod'e An [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1924327
Comments: 43
Kudos: 410





	Mirjahaal

_“What do we do, sir?” CT-7711 craned his neck just a touch further, peering at the body-strewn battlefield, blaster fire still filling the area ahead of them. No matter how many troopers flooded the canyon, it was too much of a bottleneck - they just weren’t making it out the other side in sufficient numbers to put a dent in the Separatist forces, piles of dead or dying brothers making it that much harder for the following waves._

_In short, a typical General Krell campaign._

_“We press on,” ‘11 said grimly. Around him, the small squad of troopers gripped their weapons tighter, as much to hide their shaking fingers as to acknowledge his words. Each of them knew, on a mission such as this, there was no turning back - Krell himself was worse than anything they might face on the battleground._

_“On my mark-” The words burned even as they left his mouth- “Ready-” A flicker, a brief gap in the wall of blaster fire- “NOW!”_

_Six men flung themselves out of the trench and hurtled towards the enemy line._

_And in as many seconds, they all went down again._

_‘11 saw the pair on his left taken out by shots in nearly the same moment; then the trooper furthest on his right stumbled, caught in the knee and then the throat. A nearby explosion shook the ground, sending both his remaining squad members crashing to the ground. ‘11 didn’t see which of them fell on top of the landmine - he only felt the shockwave, and the fire, and the **pain-**_

‘11 flung himself upright, gasping for breath, frantic to keep moving before blaster fire collided with his form - only to freeze as he realized night had turned to day, buildings had replaced cliff walls, and seven men he never thought he’d see again were sprawled across the rooftop in front of him.

CT-7714, his batch brother and fellow sergeant, who perished in the first of Krell’s suicide runs on their original campaign. The twins, 5431 and 5432, his pair of vod’ika, who happily kept their appearances identical - a matched pair even when going down together under the enemy’s artillery. 6641, 9779, and 8156, his oldest and dearest squadmates, who’d all fallen off the edge of a collapsing bridge, ‘11 the only one of them to make it to the far side. And right in the middle of the group, pushing himself up onto his knees, was 4418 - _captain, friend, ori’vod._ Executed by Krell ages ago, for retreating with the wounded instead of pushing forward through a marsh full of booby traps.

‘11 trembled in place.

“Omm?” 4418 muttered, squinting in his direction. “That you?”

The name did him in. With a strangled sob, ‘11 lunged, catching his dead brother in a fierce embrace. There were exclamations of surprise, words and questions that passed overhead, but ‘11 barely heard any of them. Tears spilled freely from his eyes for the first time in _years,_ bottled up emotion finally released in an unending torrent of great, heaving sobs. 4418 didn’t say anything, just held him in return, thumb stroking between his shoulder blades in a way both familiar and foreign.

No one had held ‘11 since 4418 died. No one felt trustworthy enough for him to relax around, joke with, _grieve_ with. Why bother getting close enough to someone for that, knowing full well the next suicide run would probably rip them away?

‘11 had lost too many brothers to be willing to try again, over and over.

Even comforted as he was by 4418’s strong grip, a sudden touch to his shoulder caused ‘11 to flinch. He heard a sharp intake of breath, and shifted his head enough to look up, just barely catching the expression of sharp concern on 7714’s face before the other sergeant smoothed it away.

“What’s with you, vod?” ‘14 asked. “I haven’t seen you this overwrought since we were still cadets!”

‘11 choked on a laugh. “Dead,” he managed to force out. “‘M finally dead, just like all of you.” He saw his batch brother’s dismay, and felt 4418’s fingers grip harder.

“Omm,” the captain said in a stern tone, forcing ‘11 back enough for them to see one another’s eyes. “How long since- since we died?”

Another, more hysterical laugh crawled up his throat. “Krell killed you two years ago.” ‘11 looked up at ‘14. “Two and and a half years.” The twins. “Year and a few months.” The bridge trio. “Almost two years.” For all their different scars and haircuts and tattoos, his brothers each managed to adopt an identical expression of horrified dismay, like a line of cadets yet to explore options of setting themselves apart.

4418, as usual, managed to recover first. “And- our replacements?”

‘11 shook his head. “Too many. Always more coming in. Always shinies, straight from Kamino, so Krell can ‘break them in’.”

He could practically _feel_ how tightly ‘14 started grinding his jaw. Though never one to argue back against superiors, his batch brother never shied away from complaining about idiotic orders after their delivery. It was probably what had landed him his place in that original suicide run, so long ago. “Doesn’t matter now,” ‘11 mumbled, shutting his eyes. “We’re all marching far away. Krell can’t get us now.”

The blaster fire that erupted nearby apparently sought to deny that statement.

Unarmed and unarmored, the troopers all nonetheless shot into motion, moving in crouched stances to check all four sides of the rooftop they’d awoken on.

“South by southwest,” one of the twins softly called.

“Twenty fighters on the ground, assorted weaponry,” his brother added. “At least two snipers in opposing positions.”

“Enemy lines or a free for all?” The captain asked, shifting from his own look-out to a spot beside the pair.

“Possibly three separate groups - they aren’t acting particular about just shooting at the other sides, though.”

“The cha’kaar’e don’t care about hitting civilians, either; I’ve already counted three bystanders go down-”

“Lightsabers!”

That shout brought all the troopers to the southern edge of the rooftop, just in time to witness a pair of thin figures drop into the fray. “Looks like they’re both humans,” one of the twins murmured. “A General and a Commander, from the size difference.”

Not to mention the difference in tasks - the taller Jedi swiftly flew around the boundaries of the courtyard, slicing through blasters and tossing combatants into one another. The smaller one darted around just as quickly, but from one pinned-down civilian to another, blocking stray blaster fire and pushing the screaming people out of harm’s way. The sight of green lightsabers made ‘11 feel stiff and cold, but at the same time, something deep inside him warmed as more and more bystanders were safely pulled out of the battle.

“Orders, sir?” ‘14 asked warily. ‘11 glanced from him to the captain.

“...We need to get down there,” 4418 answered after a moment. “Jedi might have a better idea of what happened to us.”

‘11 forced himself to take a deep breath, and hold back the panicked wail of _no no no, we just got AWAY from Krell, no more Jedi, please let’s just get out of here while we can-_

The captain gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. ‘14 grasped his arm to help him up. As their group headed for a ladder embedded in the side of their building, each of the other troopers managed to either touch his shoulder or his back, making him aware of their presence, their awareness. ‘11 let the gestures calm him as much as possible.

Once on the ground, he made himself take a deep breath, pushing the panic aside to let his training take over again. 4418 clearly noticed, because he gestured to the pair of sergeants. “Omm, Redseg, both of you circle around to the side streets, pick up any weapons you can find. We’ll keep to the background unless the Jedi look to be in trouble. You two, guard their backs; you three, with me.” Orders given, the group split in half; at the first intersection, ‘11 parted from his batch brother, one vod’ika sticking close as he slipped silently up an alleyway. Just as they were nearing the end, a door in front of ‘11 got wrenched open, revealing a scowling Weequay with rifle in hand.

Instincts took over. _Quick step forward, sucker punch to the gut, chokehold; catch the weapon before it falls, let the target settle with minimal sound, check immediate surroundings._

The trooper behind him stared. “Wow, sarge - you’ve gotten even faster than I remember!”

‘11 let a bitter smile flicker across his face. “Only thing that’s kept me alive this long. Come on- Sol or Tad?”

A startled blink and scrunched eyebrows met his query. “Tad, sir.”

They both knew ‘11 used to be one of the only men capable of telling twins ‘31 and ‘32 apart. Neither mentioned it aloud. ‘11 resumed stalking down the alley, rifle in hand. “Come on, Tad.”

The younger clone followed silently.

-Vod’e An-

Two things became very clear, in the aftermath of breaking up the courtyard battle. First and foremost, the Jedi they’d assisted were _nothing_ like Krell, because the older one - male, human, Coruscanti accent - smiled at them with sheer relief in his eyes, and thanked each of the troopers personally, asking for their names one by one.

The second thing they learned came from the smaller Jedi - female, near-human species, inflections in her voice that matched the locals - when 4418 asked for an update on the status of the war, to which she asked, “What war?”

Ky Narec and Asajj Ventress, it seemed, had been living in accidental exile for a long, long time. They looked increasingly alarmed when the troopers tried to address them as “General” or “Commander”, when they hedged around the details of serving under Krell, and especially when ‘11 continually tensed each time one Jedi or the other so much as glanced in his direction.

Eventually, Narec made the executive decision to lead all of them out of the derelict town, to a small hut in the nearby foothills where he and his student lived in relative safety.

“Rattatak has no organized government or police forces,” the man explained, moving noticeably slower as their path grew steeper. “Which is why I’ve made it a weekly habit to patrol the town and spaceport, to try and curb some of the more, violent citizens.”

“Killing them would be more efficient,” 4418 pointed out with a frown.

“And then the local warlords would upgrade my status from minor nuisance to actual threat, which I can’t afford.” Narec’s head turned back, his gaze going straight to Asajj, where she brought up the rear and hid their tracks.

“Then why get into fights at all, sir?”

“Because saving even one innocent life is worth it.”

Keeping two steps behind his ori’vod and the strange Jedi, ‘11 swallowed, fingers tightening on the rifle he’d stolen.

The single room hut they arrived at couldn’t hold more than a few people, so the Jedi brought their cooking supplies outside, Narec assembling a stew out of their stories as Asajj got a fire going. Cautiously, eyes darting to the others for reassurance, the twins offered to help. Narec showed Tad how to crack the husk-like skin of a local vegetable in order to peel it, while Asajj tossed a canvas bucket to Sol and pointed out a spring visible halfway up the closest hill.

Slowly, the rest of the troopers sidled in, finding or asking for things to do. All except ‘11, who sat at the furthest edge of the little camp, rifle resting across his knees.

When Narec started ladling steaming stew into the rough wooden bowls ‘14 had carved, he nodded towards ‘11. Asajj brought the first serving over, and despite how he went stiff upon accepting it, the girl dropped to sit. She deliberately picked a spot diagonal from ‘11, as if they made up perpendicular sides of a square, so that both she and the rest of the camp remained in his field of vision.

‘11 stared at her.

The girl stared back.

Eventually, ‘11 started to eat.

Asajj waited until he got about halfway through his bowl before she spoke up. “Why are all your names so strange?”

 _We don’t have names,_ ‘11 almost replied. But the words clogged in his throat, because- he’d already answered to Omm, hadn’t he, when 4418 first called it out? And he’d even asked, Sol or Tad, because that was what the twins used in the barracks, away from hostile ears, when they didn’t just want to be ‘31 or ‘32.

“...we had to name ourselves,” he finally said instead. “Found inspiration where we could.”

“What inspired ‘Omm’, then?”

_Do you REALLY have to say it EVERY time, vod?_

_You’re just jealous you don’t have a catchphrase of your own!_

“On my mark,” he whispered. “I always said it. I, I always-” His vision went blurry, and he curled over both bowl and rifle alike, shoulders shaking.

How many of his squads, his brothers, had died with those being the last words they heard? How many had he lost? _How many-_

Omm didn’t realize he’d started crying until slender fingers curled around his wrist, bigger hands grasping his shoulders. “We’ve got you, vod’ika,” murmured 4418 - _Kaden, he named himself Kaden, because using Mando’a was safer than Common when literally calling yourself Anger-_ “We’ve got you.”

-Vod’e An-

“Captain Kaden,” Omm murmured to himself that night, curled up safely in the middle of a pile of sleeping brothers. “Sergeant Redseg, Corporals Banter, Bother, and Bummer, Troopers Sol and Tad. Commander Lore, Sergeant Diver, Sergeant Quote, Medic Worri...”

Nearby, Asajj sat against the wall of her home, listening to the faint sounds, repeating them inside her own mind as Omm went on and on and on. When her Master shuffled through the curtained doorway and stood beside her, the thirteen year old shifted to partially lean against his leg as well. They both remained silent, watching the stars turn above Rattatak’s mountains, bearing witness to a list of names offered like a prayer.

**Author's Note:**

> Mirjahaal - peace of mind, emotional healing
> 
> Edit: It's only been a few hours since this went up, and _holy crap,_ I've never had quite this sheer number of comments thanking me for making them cry x'D


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